


Our Resistance

by sisyphvs



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Camerashipping, Eventual Romance, Friends to Lovers, General corporate scumbaggery, Inspired by 1984 - George Orwell, M/M, Not Beta Read, Politics, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Slow To Update, Unethical Experimentation, Using characters from the murkoff account, We live in a society, Worldbuilding, be gay do crime, because why not, eventual angst, if you see any mistakes shh, this is not beta read like at all, well it's ALMOST crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25584082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sisyphvs/pseuds/sisyphvs
Summary: Waylon Park--a model citizen of Mount Massive Heights, which is a living project in Leadville led and reformed by Murkoff. Once a large corporation, now a government. For as long as Waylon could remember, life has always been like this.But one day, when he tries to spend some time with a friend of his, they both end up finding something big that the so-called government has been trying to hide; something that they both wished they could unsee. And not only that, it shakes them to the point where they question the true intentions of Murkoff's principles.AKA: A semi-dystopian AU where Murkoff pretty much governs the whole country and Leadville is one of their chief/capital cities. This fic follows Waylon as he eventually finds himself catching feelings for Miles (who is a friend of his in this.) However, everything seems to take a bit of a different path when they both turn towards conspiracy.
Relationships: Waylon Park & Miles Upshur, Waylon Park/Miles Upshur
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	1. Vices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, this whole fic is sorta an homage to '1984' by George Orwell and Muse's 'The Resistance' album. 1984 is one of my favourite books ever and there are a lot of songs in The Resistance (also based on 1984 by the way!) that remind me greatly of Camerashipping (,,: 
> 
> Anyway, just a headsup: This chapter is mostly exposition & build-up, so it'll be quite lengthy as expected. 
> 
> Also, this is my first time writing anything dystopian, and I am mostly basing it off from what I've read in 1984 and what I've seen in articles, so gentle critique is always welcome and appreciated! 
> 
> Content Warnings for this chapter: graphic depictions of injuries

It was about nine in the morning, Waylon Park was getting himself ready for a day out. He stood by the doorframe of the entrance to his apartment suite, his vision fixed on the large window by his living room.

What he saw through the glass was a dull, bleak morning; the sky was lined with grey clouds and the atmosphere was painted with the ash-tinted morning fog. He paid little mind to this, however, as it was pretty much the typical backdrop for Leadville.

He looks away from the window, shifting his attention towards the brooch in his hands. The brooch was gold and it depicted the vague silhouette of what looked like a guillotine with three separate blades. _He'd treated the thing like a medal._ Waylon would then proceed to fix it onto his tweed jacket, being extra mindful not to poke too large of a hole in the fabric. 

But this brooch proved much more than just an accessory. It's an indicator launched by Murkoff (their current governors) to show that one was a model citizen--and ones who did not have this brooch were to be shamed, excused by the public.

To top off the cake, preserving this role of an ideal citizen was no easy task and Waylon himself knew it all too well. One would almost need the obedience of a dog in order to follow the principle of model citizenship provided by Murkoff.

**Your World, Our Business: Routine Above All, Pay Less Mind To Hobbies**

From what he knows, there is a specific routine scheduled for all residents: All must wake up at around seven in the morning, and when the clocks strike to six in the evening, everyone had to be at home. The morning speech provided by Jeremy Blaire, Murkoff's representative, had to at least be seen by each citizen once a week, whether they see it aired on the television or watch it directly in the middle district assembly (it's almost always the same things being said, though.) Usually, the more often they see it, the better.

Citizens are brought out to sweep the streets twice a week in exchange for a decent sum of money in the mail, and children are taught at a young age to be accustomed to such principles. Not to mention that the working class had mostly consisted of fathers now.

Though, the freedom to form and talk about your own worldviews was still allowed, but only in gentle moderation.

However, if one had lost their wits to hide their failures to follow the provided routine, their actions are to be shamed and displayed on the press. And well.. it just turns into a vicious cycle from then on.

The only way to prevent this, is to _comply._

Waylon's even heard stories of people and their families disappearing out of the blue after one had lost their brooch. 

And although he hasn't been close enough to lose his brooch, those stories shake him enough to the point where he has the routine ingrained in the bare root of his mind... 

He'd been taught about it for as long as he could remember. Hell, it's even one of the most prominent subjects taught in the university district. 

They're given the brooch as young children when they first start school, and it's the biggest task of their life to preserve their possession of it. Of course, general crime (such as assault and murder) was still evident and reinforced against. However, losing the brooch was, ideally, to be avoided like the plague. 

He'd thought about it before...but revolution had seemed like a mere distant dream now-- a childish one, in-fact. And so Waylon simply lets out a brief sigh, only relieved knowing he has no street-sweeping to do this morning as he pulls out his usual grey plaid scarf from his hatstand. He made sure of himself to wear it in a way where it won't hide his brooch. 

Around what? Two or three days ago, he arranged plans to spend some time out with Miles Upshur--a fellow model citizen, and a dear friend of his he met in university. It's been about two months since they both graduated with flying colours (well, as expected of them.)

The sandy-haired young man then took a brief moment to fix his glasses, before slipping on his usual pair of shoes and reaching out for the doorknob. After that, he finally opens the door and steps outs to the hallway, the scent of carpet and the neighbours' cooking filling his senses.

Waylon sniffs the smell of what could've been chicken noodle soup as he fumbles around in the pockets of his black trousers, searching for his apartment keys. He finally pulls them out of his left pocket, before using them to firmly lock the door.

He began trudging down the hall, and eventually to the elevator. Waylon then presses the button that would lead him down to the lobby, right as the elevator doors would welcome him in. 

It mildly surprised him that there wasn't anybody else in the elevator since the mornings were almost constantly jam-packed with plenty of people. This was mostly because of the strict curfew rules--all citizens had to be home by six in the evening, no exceptions.

Then, it suddenly came to Waylon that it's actually been quite a while since he and Miles have talked in person, apart from all the phone calls and letters and the street-sweeping sessions. 

He remembered that they scheduled to meet near the middle district--where there would be the usual morning speech going on. Miles told him that he had some sort of _important_ matters to be discussed.

 _I mean, couldn't he.. just tell me on the phone or something?_ Waylon chastised. The question of how important it could've actually been boggled him a bit.

Though thankfully for him, Waylon had already watched Blaire's speech on the television this week, (being that there's well... barely any entertainment with only about three channels) He hoped the same for Miles, knowing that missing out could lead to those… _consequences._

Not to mention, the middle district wasn't all that far from Waylon's apartment--in fact, it'd actually take a rather surprisingly short walk to get there.

The elevator eventually opens its doors and lends Waylon a ding--ultimately breaking his trail of thought yet also notifying him that it's reached his desired destination. He then steps out of the elevator and into the lobby, tugging his scarf over his mouth and nose.

The small lobby man, Mr. Banks would offer Waylon a small wave from behind the front desk. "Good morning, Mr. Park!" he greeted him, voice saccharine. 

"Good morning," Waylon replied absentmindedly, sounding slightly muffled as he shuffles himself towards the main entrance doors. 

Though, everyone practically knew that Mr. Banks was only there to simply keep track of who went in and who went out. A reinforcer of the routine--nothing more, really. 

"Alright, have a nice day then, won't 'ya?" Mr. Banks said, enthusiasm wavering slightly. Waylon then simply dismisses him with a small wave to say goodbye, before heading out of the apartment building and making his way into the streets. 

And the world truly looked cold now. Large dark blue posters and banners imprinted with the symbol of the brooch and the motto **Your World, Our Business** were plastered everywhere on the tall, domineering apartment buildings and even the most small, humble shops. 

They all look down on Waylon-- _and he falters._ But deep-down, he truly knows there's nothing he can do about it.

-×-×-

It hadn't been long since Waylon had arrived at the middle district. As expected, Blaire was giving out the morning speech. There were crowds scattered everywhere, hundreds gathered around for the assembly and some just simply standing near Murkoff's head office building.

The building was this tall, white twenty-story building accompanied by large windows. It mostly held its purpose as the office of Rudolf Wernicke-- Murkoff's official leader. And of course, the big, blue guillotine logo was seen on its rooftop.

Waylon simply stalled there, scanning the office building up and down, paying little interest to the morning assembly. Well, he's already seen it this week.

And all the things Blaire usually said in his speech were simply just updates on people breaking the routine and well, the typical "Good morning, citizens of Mount Massive."

A few moments had passed, until Waylon felt a brief tap on his shoulder. "Psst." A voice said. 

Waylon gasped slightly, since he hadn't paid much attention to his surroundings and turned around to see that it was his friend, Miles. 

He seemed to be wearing rather similar attire, but with a darker coloured jacket that seemed less heavy and a red scarf, instead of the grey plaid one Waylon wore. Though, Miles's jacket was also embellished with the same gold brooch, considering the fact that he was also a model citizen.

"Oh, hey Park," Miles would greet him, a small smile plastered on his face. "Uh, sorry if I startled you a bit there--" He chuckled casually.

Waylon then shifts his attention towards Miles, before proceeding to pull his scarf down to uncover his face. "Oh no, it's fine," he says, scratching the back of his head. "Well, how have you been? You saw the speech already?"

"Pretty good, and yeah, saw it yesterday," He says, reaching out for Waylon's unoccupied hand. "But c'mon, man, I've got something I wanted to show you." 

"Huh, what is it?" Waylon quirks a brow, not too sure what to make of it. Whatever it was, Miles sounded like he was in a rush. _Was this.. the important matters?_ he thought.

Other than that, he's relieved that nobody else could really hear, nor care about whatever the two of them were conversing about, due to all the other chattering and Blaire's speech. 

"Well, it's a bit of a _surprise._ " Miles says, before instantaneously taking Waylon's hand. He then ushered him to his striking red jeep, which was just by the street parking.

Waylon knew Miles had a car, but it still felt a tad odd considering the fact they both almost always walked when it came to transportation (well, unless they had to go to the university district.)

"Uhh--alright then." said Waylon. He just lets the word _surprise_ sink in for a moment.

Now, Waylon had initially hesitated, because it all seemed very sudden to him. However, he wasn't necessarily _surprised._ After all, Miles was always the one who would introduce him to newer things, and they haven't really gotten in any big trouble for any of it, _yet._

But Waylon headed into the Jeep and decided to give it a shot anyways. Knowing Miles, he'd be at least smart enough to not get anyone into a situation that'd too bad to handle.

-×-×-

The car ride to the mystery place took quite a while. Waylon glances at the digital clock just by radio: **10:35 AM** it read. And, he only left home at about nine.

As Miles would park his car, Waylon's eyes drifted off to the dashboard window--There seemed to be a large, lush meadow, dotted with daisies and dandelions. And despite the dull weather, it was still beautiful; something Waylon would only see in his dreams.

The meadow was also surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, and behind the fence were the largest transmission towers Waylon has ever seen. They were large enough to the point you could see them in the streets of Mount Massive Heights--and they were just in the outskirts of town.

It looked unreal, like a landscape of some sorts. However, one thing that rubbed Waylon in the wrong way was that the transmission towers were clearly Murkoff's property. So, he'd guessed the whole thing was just government property.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Miles says, lightly nudging Waylon in the shoulder with his elbow. "I haven't seen anything like this, either."

"Miles," said Waylon, voice sounding unsure. "Isn't this.. Trespassing?" He'd cast the dark-haired young man a slightly concerned glance. 

"Well, technically it'd only be considered trespassing into government property if we went _over_ the fence." countered Miles. "Besides, I've seen plenty of couples and small families out here."

Oddly enough, there was nobody else out here. Busy day, perhaps.

Waylon bit his lip for a moment. He wants to believe Miles, but at the same time, he's scared that they'll both get in trouble or even worse, lose their brooches. He then lets out a brief sigh, still feigning uncertainty. "Alright, I'll just take your word for it, then." 

Miles nodded, seemingly taking note of his unsure tone. "Eh, don't worry too much about it. Besides, we should get going." he says assertively, before unbuckling his seat belt and heading out of the car. Waylon proceeded to do the same as Miles would lock his car. 

_That car really means a lot to him. It would suck if someone stole it,_ Waylon thought.

Truth be told, in Mount Massive, not many people seemed to be using cars, apart from those who worked or were enrolled in university. 

It wasn't that nobody could afford them--it's just that most places, including the middle district were just so tightly knit, you could easily access it all with a short walk. Well, unless you were going to the outskirts of town, of course. 

It wasn't too long til they both began wandering off to the meadows. 

"Well, how's life?" Miles inquired casually as he slung his arm around Waylon's shoulders.

"Decent, as always. Just the usual street-sweeping, and reading if I had the time." answered Waylon. "Yours?" 

"Well, I've just about been doing the same things," he says. "Apart from that, I'm pretty curious about this place, you get what I mean?"

"Yeah, it's nice, but it seems a bit--" Waylon cuts himself off, noticing that he stepped on something. It feels like a large plastic-like card of some sorts--a folder perhaps.

Waylon just darts his eyes down to the ground as he plucks his foot away from the object to take a better look. It's a rather beaten-up looking dark blue file, and embellished on the front was the very same Murkoff logo--the guillotine. 

"..What's government files doing here?" murmured Waylon as he reaches down to pick up the folder. _Shit, I mean, I really shouldn't be doing this,_ he chastised for a brief moment, but dismissed the thought anyway due to his curiosity. 

"What is it, Waylon?" Miles asked, tone beginning to sound concerned. He also seems to notice the logo on the file. 

Waylon opens the file. His eyes widen and his heart pangs--feeling every hair on his neck stand.

In there were some notes, more specifically, researching notes. But he barely paid any mind to that, and it wasn't what shook him.

Accompanying the notes was a laminated picture of an extremely scrawny young man, tightly strapped to some sort of table. His sullen face was so pale and translucent, you could practically see the veins through his cheekbones--like his skin was grey stained glass. The man's eyes were dark, hollow sockets. Completely devoid of any life. Some of his bloodied fingers looked like they were twisted and gnawed off and there was barely any hair on his head, apart from some patches on his scalp. 

He looked awful. Like he'd been forced through complete hell on earth--or locked into a small room for eternity, where it's just him, four walls and his decaying sanity. 

_Have they been doing… experiments?_ he already shudders, thinking of the word alone.

Waylon then drops the file in an instant, hands trembling. If he had the choice to completely erase his memories of ever picking the damned file and seeing the picture, he'd definitely do it without any hesitation. 

"Waylon, what is it?" Miles asked him again, sounding even more concerned as he crinkles his brows and picks the file up from the ground.

"No," he says shakily. "Miles, we are leaving this place." 

Though it already seemed a little too late, Miles flips the thing open and physically recoils at the picture. "What.. what the actual _fuck_?" he spat out, clearly disturbed by what he sees. He was shaking to the point where his hands seem to lose grip of the file as it drops onto the grass.

Miles takes a step back, trying to process what he just saw.

"Miles, we need to go. Right now." said Waylon, sounding even more frantic.

And for a brief moment, there was no response. All Waylon could hear was his own heartbeat, thumping like a bass drum and Miles's horrified gasping. 

That clearly wasn't something they were supposed to see, in-fact nobody was supposed to see it, at all. And to Waylon, everything started to make sense. The forced routine, the people being vaporized out of the blue after losing their brooches--it all connected. Living seemed like a sick joke, now.

"Right." Miles finally said, gasps steering into deep breaths. He seemed to calm down now, regaining his senses.

And so, they began making a run for it to Miles's car--both wishing they could forget what they saw. But it's already etched in their memory, there was no use hoping of it would all ebb.

When they both arrive near the parking stall of the car, Miles frantically searches his pockets for his car keys. "C'mon, c'mon--"

He then let out a relieved sigh--finally finding the keys which were deeply burrowed in one of the pockets of this trousers. He unlocks the car door and heads into the driver's seat, gesturing Way to get in, too.

They both shift their weights into the seats as Miles starts up his car.

"What the hell was that?" Miles grumbled, gritting his teeth.

"I--I don't know entirely," Waylon said. He was definitely still shaken by it. "But, I think Murkoff's been doing experiments on people." He gulps.

"That's crazy. Absolute fucking bullshit." Miles didn't want to believe it, he'd at least hoped it was all just some sort of sick prank. 

But it truly seemed as if the whole model citizenship system was all just this shitty device to reduce people they'd deem less worthy into guinea pigs, lab rats.

"..It makes sense," countered Waylon. "The real question is, _why would they do them?_ Are they trying to use it all for _profit?_ " _Money. Of course it's for the fucking money,_ he'd added in silently. 

And Miles just sighs, it's all too much for both of them to even comprehend. "You know what, let's just.. move on."


	2. It can't go on like this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon reminisces on the past as he tries to forget about the incident in the meadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kno its been well over 10 days and i am so so sorry for not updating!!! )): Last week has been incredibly hectic for me and I was not in the right state to get any writing done. However, I've been feeling much better now, so there's nothing to worry about. <33
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: None (there are however, mentions of the picture in the folder but nothing major.)

Five days have passed since Waylon and Miles have discovered the _possible,_ cruel truth about Murkoff. It was another typical gloomy day at around eight in the morning--this time with some additional rain. 

As he was about to get himself ready, Waylon stood by the large living room window, a ribbon clutched tightly by his right hand. His eyes drifted off to the glass dotted with raindrops, and saw the streets gradually fill with more and more people, some of them being special workers for Murkoff. He then shuddered and looked away when he noticed them--it'd reminded him of the incident in the meadows--the file, the picture of the young man who'd been exploited against his own will. 

_And for what? Money?_ he chastised, fury grazing over him as he grit his teeth. 

But Waylon felt a little thankful that street sweeping didn't require much interaction with Murkoff's workers. It was mostly just cleaning and picking up the city's garbage, and it would be done with either a partner or a group. Waylon had Miles as his partner most of the time, since he found that he wasn't exactly the best with groups.

Though, there was no possible way he could forget about the _incident._ It's already etched into his mind--it's a blanket of dread that thrums straight through his skin. It almost makes him feel like the young man in the picture, even when he just reminds himself of it. The feeling never ceases and unfortunately, Waylon knows it won't. 

So instead, Waylon dragged his attention towards the red ribbon in his hand as a makeshift distraction.

This made him remember a time where the sun used to shine. It's like a picture deeply embedded in his mind--it's certainly there, but the only problem is that he can no longer retrieve it (as in, well, experience it once again.)

He remembered when he was recently enrolled in the university district so he could fulfill his desired studies. Not only that--he was finally being able to grow out of a dull childhood and move into a decent apartment, all by himself. 

He remembered when he was around 20 and had his first love-- _Lisa,_ and the day she'd gave him the ribbon.

He vividly recalled the memory which was from around a year ago. She'd told him on the rooftop of Waylon's apartment complex that they had to split. Lisa had explained that her whole family had to flee before Murkoff would find out her father's act of defiance against the routine. 

At first, it'd felt bitter and sudden--like a needle pricking his finger. But he understood the circumstances. He didn't shed a single tear at that time, only gave out small nods.

As a way to keep her in his memory, she'd untied her hair and gave him a red ribbon; the very same one she'd once used to keep her dark locks in place, and now, the very same one Waylon would hold onto whenever he needed some hope to be spilled. Like a good luck charm...almost.

With that, Lisa had told Waylon goodbye and _I love you_ for the very last time. 

And when the next morning came, Lisa and her family were gone. No traces of the girl, nor her family. Nobody else knows what happened, it was almost like they never existed--completely vanished and vaporized.

Deep-inside, he'd wished he could've ran with her. But Waylon had also known that splitting was the best for both of them. So, the only thing he does is hope that Lisa's out there somewhere in the world--safe and seeking sanctuary with her family.

He remembered that Lisa had promised him everything and everyone will be alright--and he knew the girl well enough that it'd all be fine in the end. It no longer mattered to him if they couldn't be together anymore, all he cares about now was that she was safe.

Waylon took another look at the ribbon; its edges are now frayed and some of the red has begun to fade, too. He placed it on the windowsill, before he'd then proceed to take his brooch, looking at it in nearly the opposite way of how he would view the ribbon. 

To Waylon, it's an empty shell of a role he's forced to be in, a cruel reminder of the system. And most importantly--the gold it's made out of _does not shine like the sun._

When he looked at it, he realized that he truly has no choice at this point. There was no way he could outrun Murkoff. If they find out what he and Miles had seen--there most likely wouldn't be a single drop of mercy to be spared. A pull in Waylon's gut formed as he thought about the man in the picture once again. He soon made the grave realization that it's likely that his fate could end up just like his.

Not just his fate, no, Miles was also at risk. The pull in his gut tightened as he realized that, too, and the dread was smothering him.

He then shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the thought once again. Waylon took another glance at the window, more and more people were coming out of their apartments. Shit, he nearly forgot about the street sweeping session.

He checked the watch on his wrist, it was half past eight. Being assigned for a street sweeping task usually started at around nine. But for a model citizen, Way found that it was always better to be early. 

Waylon sighed, before fixing the brooch onto his dark blue parka and throwing on his grey, plaid scarf, and then putting on his usual pair of shoes. Nothing too special for a citizen of Mount Massive.

 _Today is going to be a long day,_ he told himself as he trudged towards the door, hands taking hold of his keys.

Waylon headed out of his apartment suite, before locking the door firmly. The halls felt bare as he passed by--the scent of cooking was absent, less voices reverberated through the walls. It was now evident that most residents had already left for the morning assembly and the street sweeping session. But Waylon paid little mind to it; the silence was calming sometimes. 

When Waylon arrived to the front of the elevator, he came to a halt. He then pressed the button to lead him down to the lobby, before the elevator doors would welcome him in. He stepped inside, checking his watch once again, three minutes had already passed. Usually, one would loathe street sweeping--however, the majority who were molded into model citizens barely took much note of it. 

To Waylon, it all feels like a practical joke. Yet again, he doesn't really have a choice...

He at least hoped that Miles would show up. With Lisa gone, Miles was one of the only people he was close to. Waylon had cut most contact off his family ever since he was enrolled into the university district--his relationship with them was certainly _complicated_ to say the least.

The elevator lent him a ding and opened its doors, notifying that its reached his destination. Waylon snapped out of thought as he stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby, putting the hood of his parka on and pulling his scarf up to shield his mouth and nose from the biting cold.

"Hello, Park," The lobby man, Mr. Banks, greeted him, offering Waylon a friendly wave. "Look alive! Big day today, I've heard." His enthusiasm was almost nauseating, it made Waylon shudder as he ventured towards the main entrance doors.

Everyone knew Mr. Banks' s role, so it's natural that most typically wouldn't want to converse much. But ths time, Waylon didn't even want to say a single _"Hello,"_ or a _"Yeah, "_ in return, so he simply waved back at him idly.

Mr. Banks waved once again to say goodbye and quirked a brow. "Have a nice day, then! _Take care of yourself._ " 

Perplexed, Waylon let those last few words sink in for a brief moment--it was all _ridiculous._ As if someone for was affiliated with Murkoff would genuinely care for a citizen's well-being. He then pushed the thought aside and exited the apartment. 

Once again, he faltered as he was met by the inevitable sight of millions of dark blue banners and posters and of course, the motto _Your World, Our Business._ Knowing what he'd seen in those meadows five days ago, that phrase felt twice as grim now, like he'd uncovered its true meaning. 

Waylon hoped he'd soon see Murkoff's true colours bleed out to the masses, until everything becomes a blank canvas, and no longer overlooked and stained by the dark blue. 

_One day,_ Waylon thought, his brows knitted as he looked up at the sky.

-×-×-

It hadn't been long since Waylon arrived at the middle district--it was always a crowded place there. There were acres of people scattered about, some attending the assembly for Blaire's speech, and the others were up in a long line by the office building, already being assigned their cleaning tasks.

Waylon's eyes drifted off to the line of people, scanning the crowd for any sign of Miles. He then noticed the familiar dark-haired young man at the very end of the line, before proceeding to venture off to there. 

Miles seemed to notice his friend and gave him a quick wave, urging Waylon to join him in line. He did so, and the two were quiet for a few moments as the line began to grow longer with more and more people. 

Waylon bit down his lip, although there were loads of commotion from the other people chattering, the silence between two seemed strange. Taking note of this, he moved a little closer to Miles, stopping when he stood right by him.

He soon realized that the last time they talked was two days ago--and it was on the phone. It wasn't even much, just a simple check-in after the incident. 

"Hi, Way." Miles greeted Waylon, his voice now sounded more quiet and less outspoken. He didn't seem like he was in his best state either--Miles' s hair was in much messier, untamed tufts and well, he just didn't sound, nor look as happy.

Waylon carefully yanked his scarf down from his face, before greeting him back. 

"How have you been?" asked Miles.

Waylon shifted uncomfortably, trying to formulate an answer. "I.." He wasn't even sure how to get the words out of his own mouth. "I mean, I could be better."

Miles huffed out a brief sigh. "Ah, I guess it's been the same for me." He didn't seem to pry in--after all, he understood that they'd sworn to move on from the incident in the meadows, or at least not talk about it. They were in public, anyways, which was clearly not the most appropriate place to discuss such things.

The two went quiet again and simply waited by the line in silence. It wasn't that they had something bad between the two of them--it was because all they could think of at that very moment was the picture of that man, and what more things Murkoff could've been hiding. 

Waylon wished that he hadn't given up to his curiosity and flipped through that file--but there's no way he could undo that all now.

-×-×-

Sometimes, you never seem to notice how fast and unmerciful of a force time can be--and it was just as evident and clear when Blaire's speech had just ended, and more and more people from the assembly were joining in the line. The rain had also stopped. However, the sun still seemed quite shy, as always.

Miles and Waylon were now at the very front of the line. Their eyes both met Mr. Annapurna, the Murkoff worker who'd always assign the two with partnered tasks. 

Waylon forced himself to just _focus_ on the tasks and the cleaning. This was what mostly made up his income, anyways. 

"Miles Upshur," Annapurna raised a brow, scribbling down a list on his clipboard. "And Waylon Park, you both will be partnered and will work together on cleaning the Pavillion Café's back alley. You'll both be leaving the garbage for somebody else, however. Does that sound good?" he said, unclipping the list from the clipboard and giving it out to Waylon. He then handed over brooms and dustpans to the two. They both nodded formulaically, taking the cleaning supplies.

Now, Waylon usually didn't loathe these shifts, but he _hated_ cleaning alleyways. Although he's never been assigned to pick up any garbage and was extremely grateful for that--the stench and the narrow, dank atmosphere would always make him feel a bit… uneasy. Being with Miles would make it a little less worse, of course. But the feeling of uneasiness and insecurity was still there. 

Annapurna would then dismiss the two off to the Pavillion Café, which was located in the east section of the middle district, a ten to fifteen minute walk from the office building in the main area.

So, they both began to venture off to the café, with Miles leading the way. However, after a few minutes of walking, Waylon seemed to come to an abrupt halt in between his steps.

He took a deep breath. _How am I gonna do this? With all of this experimentation bullshit I can't seem to forget,_ Waylon thought.

Miles noticed the sudden absence of his footsteps and also stopped for a brief moment, peeping at Waylon from his shoulder. "C'mon, let's just get this over with." coaxed Miles, a very faint hint of assertiveness in his voice.

Waylon brushed the thought away, huffing out a small sigh as he began to walk again, dragging the broom and dustpan along with him. To motivate himself, he had to think of happy, pleasant thoughts--he thought of Lisa and the times they'd both held their hands together. He thought of Miles and the ridiculous jokes they'd cracked up together back in university, and all the places he'd shown him before in the past. These thoughts were sometimes quite comforting--like temporary solace.

A small smile crept on Way's lips as he continued venturing to the café with Miles. They seemed to be getting closer now.

-×-×-

Contrary to Murkoff's office building, the café was much more humble and definitely less intimidating. It was located in the east section's plaza, which was a large plaza located near some smaller apartments. The café was a big, cottage-like brick shop with potted plants strung by the roof of the porch. It seemed quite welcoming--perhaps a little _too_ welcoming. 

But Miles and Waylon were not there to have a cup of coffee and go into discourse about Blaire or Murkoff's upcoming living projects (trust them, they'd really rather not anyway,) they were there to clean. And simply put, they had no other choice. For the recently graduated like them, this was the only possible way to gain money.

They both took a brief moment to observe the front of the café, scanning it. It looked odd--like it didn't belong as the other businesses and shops looked much more industrial and modern. It definitely stood out from the rest, that's for sure.

"Okay, then--let's go." Miles said, ushering both himself and Waylon to the very back of the plaza. 

A few minutes later, they were walking around in the narrow, dingy alleyway that drew the line between the back of the plaza and the back of a small, four storey brick apartment complex. There seemed to be nobody else there except for them.

They were specifically instructed to clean the area behind café and just leave the garbage for somebody else to clean. It didn't seem too difficult, but Waylon wasn't too sure about the _alley_ part (it wasn't necessarily the cleanest one either.)

The only thing that made it all feel a little less dank was the absence of the rain.

Soon, they noticed the eccentric shape of the back of the Pavilion Café and trudged over to there. Since almost every single citizen was sent off to do street sweeping, the café itself had seemed quite vacant. There was no noise, no chatter, no music and the sound of dishes being washed was also absent.

Waylon tensed a bit, grimacing. "I don't really feel... safe here." he said quietly, uncertainty in his voice. He swore he felt himself physically shiver, too.

An alleyway was typically known as a place where you could get mugged or targeted against, and although crime was still strictly reinforced against--it still happened, (as there was no such thing as a crime-free utopia.) It's plastered all over the newspapers, the speeches, and of course, on the television. 

And as much as Waylon didn't also want it, he wished there could've been guards or something... perhaps Murkoff workers. The thought didn't necessarily seem to comfort him either, however. 

"It'll all be _fine._ It'll just be a quick shift… And I'm here, nothing bad's gonna happen for the most part." Miles promised, smiling at his friend reassuringly. 

"Are you sure?" countered Waylon, still keeping the tone of his voice soft. Miles seemed to make the planned task at hand a little bit more bearable for Waylon, but he still felt unsure--ever since the incident.

Miles gave a terse nod. "Just focus on the task for now."

The pair then began sweeping, the bristles of their brooms grazing against the asphalt and pushing any piece of garbage and debris into their respective dustpans. Whenever the dustpans got full, they'd simply toss all of the contents into a nearby garbage can. Being in alley, those were quite common. 

The two of them were alone together now, with the noises of the brooms' bristles brushing against ground being one of the very few things accompanying them. Waylon didn't mind this at all--in fact, being alone with Miles was something he'd favored. That way, he found it easier to communicate with him. 

Way let out a brief a sigh and said, "We didn't seem to talk much back at the middle district," He glanced over to his friend. "Barely, in fact."

Miles bit his lip. "Just… not really in the mood for talking these days." he answered, his shoulders making a small shrug. He seemed to not dare speak about the picture, nor the meadows in general. Way preferred it to not be discused, anyways.

"Guess we're on the same boat then." said Waylon, letting out a small chuckle at the end.

Miles laughed. "Yeah. Anyways, have you done anything... exciting recently?" he asked. 

Waylon kept quiet for a moment as he continued to sweep, presumably looking back on stuff he's done for the week. "Not really," answered Waylon, shaking his head. "Well, how about you? I mean, you're the one who always introduced me to fun places, and stuff."

"To be honest with you," He looked over to Waylon. "I haven't either. You--I'm pretty sure you'd know why." Miles's tone sounded a little more firm now, as opposed to his default, relaxed voice.

Way's lips simply thinned into a nervous line. Even unspecific mentions still reminded him of _it._

Miles seemed to notice this. "Oh--sorry." he said, dismissing the topic and pushing it aside for now.

"It's fine." 

"Hey--y'know, maybe I could come over to your place tomorrow?" Miles suggested. He genuinely seemed like he wanted both himself and Way to feel better after the recent events; although they still weren't necessarily sure whether or not they were safe from Murkoff. 

"Oh, yeah--of course." Waylon said, a smile forming on his face already. 

"Hm, at around twelve, maybe?"

"Yeah." Waylon nodded, cleaning out his dustpan.

"Twelve it is, then." Miles chuckled. "Don't forget."

Waylon snorted. "Pfft--I won't." He definitely felt a bit better now, emotionally--but his arms already began to feel sore, and they still had a ways to go. 

They both simply continued to sweep until the alley seemed somewhat _spotless,_ occasionally breaking the ice with a joke or two--just like old times. It felt nice for once--even Waylon almost forgot they were in an alley. 

Several minutes had passed, more people, mostly groups had arrived to clean up the other shops, and it wasn't too long before Miles and Waylon were finally done with their shift. 

"…I think it looks clean enough." commented a tired Waylon, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He then placed his broom by a garbage can. His limbs completely felt like jelly now--not the best physical feeling, and he was sweating through his parka. It didn't relief him at all that he had to walk all the way back to the main area of the middle district, and then to his apartment. "Man, I'm... pretty tired." He didn't seem to be able to pinpoint at why he felt so drained for this _specific_ shift either.

"Ah, I mean, if you want we could just walk to the middle district, and then I could give you a ride home?" Miles offered. Him being the more active one, he definitely seemed a lot less tired than Waylon. 

"Yeah, thanks," A walk back to the main area of the middle district was the most he'd be able to do for now. "That'd be nice."

Miles smiled at Way. "Alright then."

-×-×-

When Waylon finally arrived at his apartment suite, he instantaneously chucked off his shoes and immediately shuffled to his bedroom, throwing his weight onto the bed. It didn't matter if he still had his brooch or his parka on--he just wanted to rest and feel himself be carried away by sleep. It wasn't just a want, it was also a need, too. Perhaps it was the only that'd fully clear his mind off the meadows for now, and he hasn't had any dreams on it either, luckily.

Waylon lay on the bed, eyes locked with the ceiling. He then checked his watch, quarter past eleven. It seemed too early for a nap, but he didn't care. He dragged his attention back to the ceiling, and most importantly his _thoughts._

 _What if life was different?_ The question rang in his mind. _What if there was no routine?_ He'd wished there wasn't. But wishes were simply futile now, it seemed. There was nobody to grant them.

Waylon went on, contemplating on what life could be without Murkoff--what life _could've_ been if Lisa never left, and what life could be if it were all just him, her and Miles.

However, his thoughts became a disjointed fog as the exhaustion soon over-weighed Waylon's eyes, drifting him off to a deep slumber. 

And then, he was finally asleep. A little break from the real world, a little break from _everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I need some sleep  
> It can't go on like this  
> I try counting sheep  
> But there's one I always miss."
> 
> -'I Need Some Sleep' by Eels
> 
> man im really using a song from the shrek 2 soundtrack in this ((':
> 
> ANYWAY.. MILES AND WAY IN THIS FIC BE LIKE,,, we live in a society


	3. QUICK DISCLAIMER

Hi guys, I probably should've announced this earlier, but I'm currently going through a bit of a difficult time right now--my mental health + life at home has been a bit wonky /: so I've been trying to fix that. And school is also starting soon for me. Therefore, updates are going to be alot more infrequent. I'm so sorry if this causes any inconvenience! 

I will still continue to update, however. But chapters might either be shorter in length, or the longer chapters will be delayed/posted less. Also, I will be posting chapter 3 very soon (i swear asdfghjkl)

Thank you SO SO much to everyone who left subscriptions, bookmarks, comments and kudos! Your support literally means the whole world to me. ♥ Stay safe and wash your hands, y'all.


	4. Facing trouble.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange things happen. Things he'd never thought would occur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hihi. Sorry for uuh not updating in a bit. I find that schedules and rushing chapter updates tend to burn me out, so i like to get more writing done when I feel most inspired/have the most free time.  
> And as i stated earlier, my mental health + life at home hasn't been very good these days (+ school is starting soon for me) so I've been trying to deal with all of that. Again, I'm so sorry if that bothers anyone ): I'll definitely be updating more frequently when things get better.
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: none. (includes vague references to the picture from chapter 1, but nothing inherently explicit)

The next day then passed. Six days, nearly a week--have went by since the incident. The clocks were striking seven, the noises of chiming waking Waylon up with a start. He grumbled and rubbed his fatigue-painted eyes, wishing he could just stay in bed a little longer, and take a big nap once again like he did yesterday.

But no, today was going to a somewhat big day--Waylon had to watch Blaire's speech on the television for this week, and Miles was coming to visit him at twelve (which was arguably the only thing he'd been excited about for this day.)

Waylon hopped off from his bed and darted over to his bedroom window, dragging the curtains aside to reveal the usual weather at Mount Massive; a sea of grey clouds in the sky. This time, it was once again accompanied by some rain scattering about. The streets seemed noticeably vacant--since most, if not all residents had just woken up.

The sun rarely shined these days as life seemed to get heavier. And of course, the man in the picture was still there, present in Waylon's mind, but he hadn't thought about it all, now. He just… tried to not think about it whenever he could.

He then ventured off to the living room and did the same for the larger window there, eyeing Lisa's red ribbon on the windowsill. It reminded him that--soon, better days _might_ come. They _will_ come. The comforting thought was like a reassuring pat on the back, which made a soft smile creep on Waylon's lips. With that he shifted his attention away from the ribbon and trudged off to the bathroom. 

He turned the tap on and splashed some cold water on his face, which invigorated his tired self to fully regain his senses. Waylon then brushed his teeth, did his business and took a brief shower. 

When he was finally done, he picked out his clothes--throwing on a dull yellow turtleneck sweater, accompanied by a typical pair of black trousers. Nothing too out of the ordinary, he simply wanted a hint of colour as opposed to the usual grey palette. After that, he fixed on his glasses and shuffled back towards his bed to go tidy it up. For Waylon, it was a rather quite easy task, (unlike street sweeping,) and he seemed to be done in no time.

He then strolled out to the kitchen, his eyes trained on the clock by the nearby living room-- _twenty past seven_ it read.

Waylon drifted his attention away from the clock, searching the cupboards for something to eat. His eyes happened to land on a small sack of oats, so he just decided on a plain bowl of oatmeal. He poured in some of the sack's contents into a bowl and filled up the electric kettle with some water. Then he promptly flicked it on.

As Waylon waited for the water in the kettle to come to a boil, there really wasn't much on his mind today. He'd just thought about what Miles would bring on his visit, as he was the one who'd always introduce Waylon to the most interesting of things. 

Or maybe, they'd crack up some ridiculous jokes together over coffee--just like old times. They still did it, of course, just a little less these days. He'd remembered a specific joke Miles once made back in university about one of their professors, a little bit of a rude one, but nonetheless they both still found it absolutely golden. 

It was something about how he acted and looked like a personified version of spinach. Old, wilted and… _especially plain,_ (it's safe to say that Miles wasn't a big fan of his lectures either.) Being reminded of this, Waylon let out a small chuckle in amusement.

The kettle rumbled, the water bubbling and finally coming to an abrupt boil. It made a distinct _tch_ noise as it stopped rumbling, and that seemed to snap Waylon's attention back to it. He poured in a good amount of water into the bowl, took a spoon from one of the drawers and gave the oatmeal a good stir.

Perhaps if would've looked better if he cooked it on the stove instead, or had some sort of toppings--but Waylon didn't really pay much mind to that and simply brushed it aside. For now, he'd just wanted a quick breakfast, not a luxury meal.

He brought his meal over to the living room, eyeing the large window. Through the glass were a handful of Murkoff workers in their dark blue uniforms, some of them taking a stroll around the block. 

Waylon scrunched his nose at the grimy sight of them. Back then, he was just… Indifferent to them, as they were simply people of much higher rank than the model citizens and alike. But now, it all felt wrong to him after having the ugly side of Murkoff being shown right to him and Miles--and the fact that nobody else out there seemed to be aware.

It's like the revealing of one's colours being presented just to you--however, that wasn't the scary part. The scary part was that the majority of the population could've just been out there, still stuck in their own little echo chamber of oblivion. Well, now that he realized it, perhaps a good chunk of people did know, but they stood for it--instead of fighting against it, even if they knew how cruel it truly was.

All Waylon wanted now was just a safe, normal life; completely away from Murkoff, if it were possible. But he wasn't entirely _sure_ if it could actually happen. Maybe all he could do about it now was just dream--although it had barely benefitted him in reality. 

Way let out a prolonged sigh, plopping down on the two-seater sofa, his right hand holding the bowl of oatmeal. He felt a little too peckish now, so he began scarfing down some of his meal. It didn't taste like anything special, but it was decently warm. And to Waylon, there wasn't anything else that felt more welcoming on a dull, cold morning, other than a warm meal. 

-×-×-

When Waylon was finally done with his meal, the clocks outside chimed loudly. This usually meant that people were getting ready for the assembly. 

He made sure of himself by checking the time, scanning the clock on the living room wall. Five past eight it read. Blaire's speech usually started at around 8:15 on Fridays. They usually had different starting times for some days: 8:15 for Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, 9:05 for Tuesdays, Thurdays, Saturdays and Sundays. Thankfully, nobody is required to watch it everyday--checking it once a week was enough. 

Waylon trudged over to the kitchen, placing the bowl and the spoon into the sink. He turned the tap on, letting the water run onto the bowl like a miniature waterfall. And it was at this moment, Way had felt conflicted.

Hell, he'd no longer agreed with what Blaire fed the masses behind a deceivingly welcoming grin, and Waylon didn't want to comply with that stupid routine either. But he was scared, too--if they'd find out that Waylon Park, a long-term model citizen, had broken one of the most obvious rules of the routine, it's likely that he'd get his brooch taken away. And even worse, he'd be publicly shamed for it--or possibly turned into some sort of overgrown human lab rat. 

_…Like the young man in the picture,_ he suddenly reminded himself, his head hung low.

Waylon sighed in exasperation, abrupty turning the tap off. That was enough. He didn't want to think about it anymore. It's final, he was going to go watch Blaire's speech. Whether he'd be fond of it or not.

He set the thought aside, having his mind already settled. Waylon took a sponge and began properly washing the bowl and the spoon. After giving the bowl and the spoon one last rinse, he set them both aside by the dish rack. 

He checked the time, ten past eight. He should be getting prepared for Blaire's speech by now.

Waylon then shuffled back to the living room, taking a seat on the sofa. He plucked the remote from the coffee table, and flicked the television on. 

The live footage of the speech would always be aired on channel one, but Waylon still had some time to spare, so he checked the other two channels. Channel one was solely used for the live speeches, channel two for news, and finally, channel three for kids' cartoons and educational programs for the youth.

There really wasn't much entertainment with only three channels, but he preferred reading more than watching television. To Waylon, most books had much more variety, value, and even some were simply just unputdownable. 

When he was finished with browsing through channels two and three, he turned on channel one as the clocks outside chimed again, striking eight and one quarter. What he saw on the television was the front view of Jeremy Blaire up on the assembly stage, with the crowded scenery of the middle district right behind the sharply dressed man. 

The speech was about to begin. Blaire straightened his back, harrumphing, and said, "Good morning, residents of Mount Massive Heights." Blaire's tone was laid back, confident, hinted with spots of mild enthusiasm. The man flashed a smile--and it was anything but genuine. Waylon had felt like he could see right through him.

"Let us begin the speech with our morning assessment," insisted Blaire.

"Shit," Waylon cursed under his breath, grimacing and clutching the remote tightly. His throat ached as the bile began to rise. _Well this isn't going to be fun._ He loathed the morning assessments, and it was twice as bad in these circumstances.

Blaire looked down at the script placed on the podium. He cleared his throat once again, and read in a steady voice, "Question number one, have you participated in yesterday's street sweeping?"

Waylon gulped. Yes, of course he did, it wasn't like he'd forgotten--he just didn't know why he felt so uneasy. Then he blew out a brief sigh, his thumb pressing on the _yes_ button implemented into the remote.

This was how the questioning worked when it came to citizens watching at home. Television remotes had _yes_ and _no_ buttons implemented onto them for the sole purpose of answering the morning questionnaire. The same thing kinda went for those who went out in person to join the assembly, except they were given miniature remotes with just the yes and no buttons.

Waylon waited for the final results and Blaire did the same, tapping his foot on the stage, his fancy shoe making dull, yet intelligible thumps on the ground.

The results finally came up when Blaire quirked a brow. "Ninety-five percent of the people here have done their assigned tasks, the remaining five percent have not," There seemed to be a harsh emphasis on the word _not._ "Things are looking fairly bright here," he said, voice sounding proud.

Waylon bit down his lip as Blaire's eyes scanned the paper for the next question. 

"Question number two, have you all properly followed the curfew rule for this week? Answer _truthfully._ " There was a slight raise in his voice when he said truthfully. 

Well, Way couldn't really understand why this was even a question in the first place. With the inspector men sitting at the front desk in the lobbies of all the apartments out there, it'd be difficult to come home past six in the evening. 

So, Waylon responded with a _yes._ And it was the truth, too.

He waited, again. Waylon found himself confused to why he's even bothering to participate in this. _They're cruel, I know that. But I don't really have a choice anymore, do I?_ He felt conflicted once again--like his mind and thoughts were all a horrible jangle of misplayed chords. 

The results for question two came up. The screen presented a small bar, completely filled in with dark blue, and bold, white letters that read _100%_ were right beside it.

This time, both of Blaire's eyebrows were raised, surprised. The expression on his face had definitely meant he was feeling the exact opposite of disappointed as a cocky smile was quirked on his face.

"One hundred percent of the people here have!" said Blaire, clapping his hands like he'd won the lottery. Waylon shuddered at this. It's all just through a screen…but it doesn't settle with him right. And he knew all too well it won't.

"Onto question number three," read Blaire, "Do you watch the speeches at least once a week on a regular basis? This question also applies to those who prefer to watch it on the television."

 _This is a waste of time._ But Waylon answered anyway with a yes. 

Blaire furrowed his brows as the results came up: Only 92% percent of the people there did.

"Ninety-two percent? Suppose we've got some work to do with that remaining eight percent," he declared, his face darkening. 

The questions seemed to go on for several minutes or so. As expected, it bored Way--terribly. He said yes to every single one of them. Luckily, they were all just the standard questions and didn't particularly involve anything specific Waylon could've found himself guilty of.

When Blaire was finally done with the questions, he moved onto the daily report, a picture of a young woman with straight brown hair materializing onto the screen. Blaire then read, " _Former_ model citizen, Anna Lee, had just lost her brooch yesterday. And what exactly did this young lady do to lose her brooch? Repeated offense against the routine. To be more specific, she was _extremely_ incompetent when it came to taking the curfew rules strictly. Model citizens have the responsibility to be diligent, not delinquents." His dark eyebrows were furrowed, and Blaire's tone was much harsher this time. "Fellow civilians, be sure to stay safe, and don't follow her example. That's all for this morning, enjoy the rest of your day, everyone." With that he finally concluded the speech with a wave. 

Waylon shuddered and immediately turned the television off when Blaire had stopped talking. He swore he felt something cascading on his spine. _That girl's fate is a lost cause now,_ he reckoned as his gaze dropped down onto the laminate wood floor. _Most likely, she'll dissappear--it's inevitable._

It was... _odd._ He hadn't thought about these types of things in life this way before. In fact, he'd actually never thought he would--not even in the times where he had lost Lisa. He'd been... almost inured to all of it. 

It was just how life in Mount Massive Heights worked.

But when he saw those remnants, the pictures of what was most likely the truth, everything began to feel wrong. Well, they were already wrong in the first place. Waylon tried to make sense of what he's seen, piece the truth altogether, but it's all disjointed and messy--like unintengellible scrawls of ink on paper meant to be a portrait.

It's a deep, dark abyss of a rabbit hole. And falling into it was scary--petrifying, even. He remembered, once again, that if Murkoff knew, his and Miles's lives would both be on the line. He prayed they didn't. 

Feeling rather quite vexed, Way rubbed the temples of his forehead. Then the thought suddenly occurred to him--he hasn't checked the mail in quite a while, has he?

-×-×-

Waylon strode to the lobby to check his mailbox, Mr. Banks giving him a halfhearted wave. He didn't even speak a single _hello_ or a _how are you._ Frankly enough, Waylon preferred it that way. _Why bother talking to an inspector? It's not like they'd actually care about how we were doing._

Waylon slipped the key of his mailbox into its respective keyhole, eyeing the other units' mailboxes on the wall. He then turned it open. In there were heaps of promotional junkmail and newsletters from the press. There was nothing out of the ordinary, until his eyes landed on a single, red letter sandwiched in between those heaps. His brows furrowed at the strange letter as he plucked out the letter and gathered together the other contents from the mailbox. 

He took a brief, closer look at the red letter, before Mr. Banks happened to notice and said, "You got a love letter from your new girl or something?"

Way figured he'd heard about Lisa. "Yeah. Well, I haven't actually seen her in a while, too," Waylon countered. Total lie-- _there was no new girl._ But whatever the letter was definitely none of his business. And so he had to quicky craft something up to ease the kinds of suspicions Mr. Banks might've had.

Mr. Banks raised a brow and pouted, feigning false pity. "How sad! Hope you get to see her soon," he beamed, his frown twitching into a toothy smile. Waylon had seen many different kinds of smiles and emotions coming from him--Mr. Banks was the kind of person that puzzled him. He was like an actor, putting on some emotion as it were a mask, and then shedding it off like a snake with its skin.

"Thanks." Waylon pursed his lips, shutting the small, metal door to his mailbox with a dull, yet shrill sounding _slam._ Then he locked it promptly, and headed back upstairs to his apartment suite.

-×-×-

When Waylon came back to his suite, he chucked off his shoes and immediately darted off towards his desk. He took a seat and threw all the mail he collected onto the desk, hands and eyes curiously searching for that one odd, letter completely dipped in scarlet red.

After a few moments of digging, he finally found the thin red letter and carefully ripped it open of its contents--a sheet of paper with what looked like an address and a note on it.

At first glance, the scrawled on text was a little difficult to process, but with a bit of squinting and focusing, Waylon could somewhat see it clearly.

The bold, black cursive read: _You have been invited: 312 Plaza Drive, Project Mount Massive Heights, Leadville. Visit at twelve o'clock in the afternoon sharp, August 19th._

Waylon knitted his brows. Something had suddenly struck in him, a thick thread of confusion, because there was no 312 Plaza Drive. He'd been on all sorts of trips around town with Miles and Lisa, and he knew very well that there was no such thing as 312 Plaza Drive. Perhaps it was some new implementation? 

But that wasn't the only thing that confused Waylon. The anonymity lead him to more and more questions. Most importantly-- _who_ had sent him this invitation and what exactly was it for? Some kind of social event? Another ridiculous, secret gathering reserved specifically for long-term model citizens to discourse about politics and what kind of sandwich Jeremy Blaire prefers for lunch?

His eyes then eventually gazed off to some sort of symbol on the bottom right corner of the card. He inspected closer--it was a little, aqua-coloured stamp of a bird's feather. 

It boggled him. For those kinds of secret gatherings, they'd stamp the letter with a black, miniature version of Murkoff's logo, not some sort of ambiguous image. And their envelopes were almost always the classic dark blue, never red.

The thought suddenly came to him. Organizations and smaller groups were the only ones that adorned themselves with their own stamps. _What if this is a sign of… defiance? Not just defiance against the routine, but all of Murkoff?_ Was there truly another party out there? A rebellion? 

This felt like one of the strangest things to happen ever since the incident in the meadows. Waylon then drew out his pen and journal from one of the desk's drawers--he wanted to report it. Preserve it. His eyelids soon began to feel heavy with heaps of exhaustion, but he pushed it aside and began writing anyway. 

He first wrote down the date: _August 14th, 2020._

What is it really August 14th though? The days in Mount Massive Heights felt they were blurring together into a bleak fog. But he needed a date, so he jotted down the one he had in mind. 

Then he started writing the actual entry, quickly turning his thoughts and observations into clumsy, sprawled letters on paper:

_August 14th, 2020._

_It's been about a week since it happened--and another weird thing has just taken place today. Ominous red letter in the mail. Some sort of invitation to a place I've never heard of. And I don't know what's it for and who it's from, but I'm hoping it's another party out there if one actually existed--Because god, it were from Murkoff, it's painfully obvious that they would use blue. Not red no--_

He only jotted down the important details before coming to a sudden halt, and he couldn't be bothered to continue as his hand began to cramp--which soon went slack. Waylon then capped his pen and set it aside. He eventually started dozing off, the bottom half of his face resting against the next page, obscured by his arms in a hugging position. 

As sleep drifted him away, the only sounds present were the still, steady ticking of the clock on the wall and the rain softly tapping his window. Nothing more than the eerie calm--and it wasn't long before he fell asleep on his desk.

-×-×-

A couple of hours had passed as the clocks struck twelve. Miles had already arrived, and Waylon was still asleep.

"Waylon?" Miles called from the door, a few knocks accompanying his voice, "Waylon, are you there?" Another knock--a louder one this time. 

Waylon heard Miles's voice from the door, which woke him up from his nap. He then proceeded to grumble and rub his tired eyes. His head ached a bit, since he'd fallen asleep with his glasses still on. _Shit, how long has he been there?_ he thought, a needle of panic pricking his finger as he surged towards the door in a frantic hurry. 

He opened the door to see Miles with his arms crossed and his brows knitted. Still feeling tired, Waylon grimaced, looking off to the side with his shoulders sagged. "Sorry, I was just taking a nap and nearly forgot--" he stammered.

"Geez, Way," Miles cut him off, uncrossing his arms. "I thought you died or something." He sounded a little worried this time, not at all mad or disappointed.

But Waylon still rubbed his arm nervously. "Well, sorry…" he apologized once again, noticing the worry in his friend's voice. He didn't want to make Miles worried.

"Oh no--you're fine," Miles reassured him gingerly, before he headed into the apartment suite and chucked his shoes onto the shoe rack, shutting the door behind him.

Waylon sighed in relief before locking the door and leading Miles to the living room. He sat down on one side of his two-seater sofa and patted the seat right next to him, offering him to come take a seat. Miles followed suit, plopping down onto the sofa.

Miles made himself comfortable, however he also made sure not to hog the sofa or sink himself in a little too much. "Hey, I've got a little something for you," he said, digging around in the pockets of his forest green parka.

"What is it?" asked Waylon. He was always excited for whatever gifts Miles would bring. 

Miles fished out what looked like some sort of sweet in silvery wrapping--perhaps chocolate, which was a bit of a rarity in Mount Massive. He unwrapped the little treat, (it wasn't actually chocolate, but it looked amber coloured) broke it in half and gave the bigger piece to Waylon, and said, "These are fruit bonbons. Stopped by the plaza to get some. I only bought a few cause I didn't know if you'd like them just yet." Miles then chucked the smaller half into his mouth. 

Now, Waylon wasn't very big on sweets, but he took it anyway and thanked Miles shortly before plopping the candy into his mouth. It tasted a lot like orange, hence the colour.

"You like it, Way?" Miles asked, having already finished his half.

There was a brief moment of silence before Way swallowed the candy, the fruity flavor still lingering in his mouth. It wasn't too bad, actually. In fact, it was much better than the very few sweets he's had before in his life. "Yeah--I like it." Waylon smiled gingerly.

"I've got a few more in my pocket if you'd like some," offered Miles.

"Oh, that'd be nice," Then, Waylon remembered something. _The letter._ He'd wanted to perhaps tell Miles about it. "Just leave them on the coffee table, I've got something I need to show you…" His voice trailed off as he wandered towards his desk to retrieve the invitation.

It didn't take long for Way to come back to Miles and the sofa, with the mysterious sheet of paper now in hand.

"Way, what is _that?_ " Miles squinted, pointing at it.

Waylon looked down, suddenly taking an interest in the floor, and muttered, "I… I don't really know." _Well, apart from the speculations that it could be from another party,_ he'd added silently.

"Let me take a look at it," urged Miles.

"Alright--tell me if you actually know anything." Waylon sat back and handed the invitation to Miles.

Miles's dark eyes scan the paper, inspecting it carefully. A look of confusion then quirked on his face, brows furrowed and lips lopsided. "…What the hell is 312 Drive?"

"I don't know either!" Waylon threw his hands in the air. "Miles, it's all just weird... We find something scary one day, and then something strange a week later." In his last sentence, Waylon made sure to falter his voice lowly and try not to directly reference _the picture_. "But I have an idea of what it _could_ be…"

Miles huffed. "Go on, I'm all ears."

"Okay, I don't know many model citizen gatherings you've been to," Way went on. "But you ever notice how similar the formatting of the invitation is to those Murkoff ones? It's literally the exact same. They tell you that you've been invited, and they jot down the details of where they're hosting the gathering, not to mention they both have some stamp in the corner--nothing more, nothing less." He pointed to the tiny, blue feather emblem in the corner. "You know how groups adorn themselves with their own special stamps? I think it's from another party. But they're not telling us who it's from exactly." He made sure to keep his voice as low as a whisper throughout.

"…That's ridiculous," Miles murmured softly after a short pause. He sounded like he didn't want to believe it at all.

"You'd think?" Waylon grit his teeth. "Miles, there's a chance they're _mocking_ Murkoff. It could be an opposing party or a rebellion--Well, you know how Murkoff is…" 

Miles sighed. "You know what," He glanced at the address once again. "I don't know where this _Plaza 312_ is, but I'll try to find it just for you."

Waylon tensed. That wasn't what he meant. Having seen that folder in those deceivingly lush meadows, both of them could've secretly been in risk. If it were just Miles to be caught (which seemed more likely at these odds,) he'd lose another person with Lisa already gone. "Miles, no. I don't want you to risk it just yet--"

"No, I'm going," he cut him off. "I'll be _fine._ Besides, I know my way around town and I've helped the two of us cheat death a few times." Miles smiled at his friend confidently. "Trust me on this, please Waylon?" he coaxed.

Waylon blew out an overwhelmed sigh. Well, Miles was right, too. Even though Waylon knew that getting in trouble could've been nearly inevitable for Miles at this point, he also wanted to know, desperately. What if there actually was a rebellion out there? People banding together against Murkoff's ideals? Hell, if they were to join them, maybe then he could finally see Lisa again and live a normal life elsewhere. "Fine, I'll let you go," he finally accepted it in a rather halfhearted manner. "Call me if you actually find something, and we'll talk about it here."

"I will," he promised reassuringly. 

And it was at this moment, Waylon had realized the many times his friend, Miles Upshur was willing to cheat death and trouble. Not just cheat, but face the two of them himself, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Got so much to lose  
> Got so much to prove  
> God, don't let me lose my mind,
> 
> Trouble on my left, trouble on my right  
> I've been facing trouble almost all my life  
> My sweet love, won't you pull me through?  
> Everywhere I look I catch a glimpse of you."
> 
> \- 'Trouble' by Cage The Elephant
> 
> Come hop on over to [my tumblr.](https://taromiinau.tumblr.com) Tbh there isn't rlly much content on there as of now (I just kinda make shitposts and reblog stuff I find cool,) but if u want, feel free to say hi to me via askbox!  
> ALSO FUN FACT: Mount Massive Heights' scenery is mostly based off the Russian city Norilsk (but with additional changes like ALOT less pollution and more skyscrapers ofc) Yall should seriously look up this place if u haven't,,, super interesting bro.


End file.
